


like oil and water

by scarletite



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Ex-Child Star Laura, F/F, Pop Singer Laura, Punk Rock Singer Carmilla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite
Summary: Laura Hollis is America's Golden Girl; ex-child star, now a renowned pop singer working on her third album.Carmilla Karnstein is the lead singer of infamous punk-rock band,Silas, well-known for her terrible attitude and questionable lifestyle.They're opposites to the core; oil and water, not to be mixed.So why, then, do they keep getting pulled back together?[AKA: The one where Laura is a sweet pop singer, the kind of girl who wears floral dresses and animal sweaters, and Carmilla is the lead singer of a punk-rock band, with a proclivity for pretty girls, leather, and with one hell of a bad attitude. And they absolutely, definitely, do not like each other. Or, at least, not at first.]





	1. the golden girl

Laura Hollis is America’s Golden Child, born beneath the limelight to a series of eager eyes and applause, the beloved child of Sherman and Cassandra Hollis—arguably two of the most famous names in Hollywood, who’d had more roles and won more awards in two decades than most actors do in their entire careers.

The entire world watches her grow up; in paparazzi photos, family photographs, red carpet premieres and magazine exclusives.

Every moment of her life is documented from birth, and she flourishes, grows, beneath a world full of cameras.

“You’re going to be something great,” her mother tells her as she tucks her in each night, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re gonna take the world by storm, sweetheart.”

And she will, oh, she will.

 

* * *

 

At five, Laura stars in her first role—a small part on _Sesame Street_ , where she gets to sing and dance with the Cookie Monster (her favorite, before they renamed him, of course; the source of endless jokes for her parents, and her nickname “Cookie Monster” that she's never been able to shake). People praise her voice, her acting, call her "cute", but she doesn't care. All she cares about is the way her parents beam, let her have pancakes for dinner. 

By eight, she's playing Brad Pitt's daughter in a movie called  _Joan._ She doesn't remember much of the movie itself, but he takes her out for ice cream on breaks, and sneaks her gummy bears when her mother isn't around to stop him. And when they promote the movie on a bunch of talk shows, and they ask her what it's like working with a whole host of famous names, that's all she can remember. So, Laura smiles for the camera, and babbles on about secret treats and how her mother yelled at him when she found out—and America's dazzled.

By ten, she’s being home-schooled, works with a private teacher during breaks, around parts in movies and commercials and television shows. She plays people’s daughter, little sister, childhood counterpart, childhood love interest—she’s a little girl with golden-blonde hair and a brilliant smile, and with each heart-melting role, the world falls in love with her all over again.

At twelve, she plays Aurora Saint-James, lead of the kid's show,  _Summer Splash_. It's about a girl who finds out that her deceased mother was a mermaid, and on her thirteen birthday, suddenly she's sprouting a tail every time she touches water. It's mostly a comedy. The role itself is a lot of fun, she gets to work with a bunch of other kids—Danielle Lawrence, who plays her best friend, Stephanie; William Luce, who plays her love-interest, Kurt; and Betty Spielsdorf, who plays her enemy, Charlie—and she gets to spend her days with an awesome (if slightly itchy) mermaid tail. It's fun, and lighthearted, and a hit with kids everywhere.

When she's thirteen, and  _Summer Splash_ is renewed for a second season, she and Danny win an award together—Kid's Choice Award for BFF's, because Rory and Stephanie's friendship has captured the hearts of kids and adults everywhere. The two of them stumble up to the stage together in pretty dresses, their parents behind them. Danny stammers too much for a speech, but they throw their arms around each other and smile, as Laura tells the screaming audience a heartfelt thank you, that they owe their chemistry to their friendship on  _and_ off camera. 

 

* * *

 

At fourteen and some change, tragedy strikes.

She gets the call on her break, her father's trembling voice over the line—words like  _airplane_ and  _crash_ and  _dead_ ring through her head, her heart, and she falls.

The news is everywhere, and by the time she stumbles out of the studio, Danny's arms half-supporting her, there's already paparazzi outside.

The problem with the limelight is that it doesn't extend only to the golden, perfect moments; it's more than that, more than any one person can bare, can contain.

The  _click click click_ of camera shutters follow her to the door of her father's car, to the hospital, to the funeral—anywhere, everywhere; eyes, questions, theories, all follow her wherever she goes, inescapable.

With the gift of fame comes a half-dozen curses: you're observed, movements followed, friends tracked, comings and goings noted, every moment and movement cataloged. It's voyeuristic, the eyes of the public fixed, piercing, through camera lenses and tabloids. Fame leaves no room for privacy, no matter how many times you ask, plead, beg, sob until it feels like your bones will break and the barely-together parts of you will tumble to the ground before the world's eyes. Fame is a give-and-take, a tug of war; you sacrifice freedom for recognition, money, promise.

So, it goes like this: a girl falls apart on the world stage, with grief in her lungs and blood on her tongue, and the cameras catch every moment.

And Laura, for the first time in her life, tastes the scathing price of fame.

 

* * *

 

Laura is fifteen and sad-eyed, a year on from her mother’s loss and still reeling, when she finds her father in his study—where he spends more and more time, lately, when he's not working (and he isn't, hasn't taken a new role since the old ones have finished).

He's sitting behind his desk, a photo album in his hands, and there's tears in his eyes.

He's looking at a photograph from when Laura was young, after her role on  _Sesame Street_ —there's maple syrup on her face, and her mother's laughing brightly, trying to wipe it off, and there's half of his thumb in the frame because he's always been bad at taking pictures (other people have always done it for him). 

"I miss her, Cookie Monster," he tells her, tears beading on the photograph's surface. "I miss her every day, every moment, every breath."

She climbs into his lap, fifteen years old and five in one moment; takes comfort in his large frame, his warmth, the scratch of his beard against the side of her cheek when he hugs her.

"I miss her too," she whispers, taking the photo album and turning the page—these are their private photos, the moments the paparazzi could never take, never see, hidden within the walls of their home, their family. "I miss her so much, Dad. I don't know how to do this without her."

Her mother had sacrificed her work, her job, for Laura; accompanied her to auditions, to the set, sat with her backstage and cheered her on through her takes. For all she'd told people off for giving her more candy than vegetables, she'd always taken Laura for pancakes or ice cream after a day well done. After every wrap, she'd hug Laura tight, so tight, and kiss the top of her head. Her mother would tell her, in the same soft voice from her childhood, that she was amazing, that she'd outshine both of her parents one day, that she'd be a bigger star than any of them.

And Laura, she'd believed her, loved her,  _wanted_ her mother's words to be true.

Acting had been more than an occupation for her parents, it had been a way of life. They'd breathed their passion, their love, into her. She'd wanted nothing more than to outshine their expectations, to become the actress they dreamed she could be, to one day act with both of them—to play their daughter not just in life, on the red carpet, but in something bigger, on equal footing.

She'd always imagined her future in a hazy, distant light; her father's warmth and her mother's laughter, standing bright beneath a star's light, on the world stage, with something fantastic laid behind them, broadcast for all the world to see. She'd loved them so much that it'd filled her to the very brim with joy, happiness, excitement. She'd been eager for her future, to claw her way towards it, one role at a time.

Now, it feels empty, lonely—sets, stages, without her mother they feel like the realm of ghosts, where happy people and laughter once lingered, and she aches to her very bones with the pain of it all. Because she loves acting, loves it so much it takes her breath away sometimes, but it's not for  _herself_ —for her, acting is about family, about love, about a distant dream and lofty goal, to prove to her parents that she can be everything they believed of her.

And now, her dream is gone, half a slate wiped away, and she's adrift—and Laura loves her father with all her heart, she does, but if anyone can understand that, she thinks it's him.

So she wrings her hands, traces the outline of her parents' smiling face, a snapshot taken backstage from her first big role, and tells him in a small, thick voice: “I don’t think I can do it without her.”

And he knows, he knows, and he takes her trembling hands in his and holds her close.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, you know that."

"How can I, Dad?" she asks, low, keening. "How can I just—just give up on it? On what she, what you both, wanted? After everything…"

He swallows thickly, takes a shaky inhale. "Your mother and I only ever wanted you to be happy. Whether it's to be an actress or a janitor, we want you to follow your passions, wherever they lead. And if…if acting isn't what you want, you shouldn't do it," he squeezes her hands, and his are larger, rougher, but warm. "I want you to do what makes  _you_ happy. Your mother would have wanted that too."

"What makes me happy?" she wonders.

He smiles, soft and sad. "Come on, kiddo. There's got to be something in that big, beautiful brain of yours—some sort of wild, crazy idea. Lay it on your old man."

And maybe, yes, he's right. 

Laura bites her lip, looks at her hands, slightly calloused fingertips.

There is something, sitting in the back of her mind, a skill practiced but never really used—explored when she was almost too young to remember, of her voice on television harmonizing with a cartoon character, to the sound of bright, happy sounds. 

She thinks to her bedroom, to the case tucked into her closet and a book of words she's never spoken aloud. 

Yes, there is something. It's slow growing, an idea, taking root inside of her; growing in the spaces of her ribcage, the empty gaps inside of her that absence and grief has left, and warming it for the briefest of moments. The idea is farfetched, so unbelievable, but it's an idea—wild, crazy, half-conceived a long time ago but left discarded somewhere on the floor, never seriously picked up.

"Music," she answers, after a moment that lingers too long. "I think I'd like to try it, maybe."

Her father straightens, then, slides her out of his lap. "Well, then. I guess you'd better bust out that guitar of yours, and we'll see if we can't get you some proper lessons, huh, kid?" he grins at her, holds out a hand—and she takes it, the weight in her chest, her ribs, her shoulders, all falling away to the floor. He winks at her. "If my baby wants to be the next Britney instead of Meryl, that's just fine with me."

Laura beams up at him.

 

* * *

 

The next day, an "undisclosed source" announces that, following  _Summer Splash's_ finale, she'll be retiring from acting indefinitely.

Her phone rings off the proverbial hook with calls—Danny, Will, Betty, her manager, a whole host of names and people. 

Laura lets it ring to voicemail. Turns her phone off.

Instead, she sits knee-to-knee with her father, holding the guitar that her mother had bought her for her thirteenth birthday—that she'd begged and begged for (because Danny had said that people who could play guitar were "so cool," and all thirteen year old her had really wanted was for Danny to think she was _so cool_ )—and plays for the first time in years, picking and strumming, testing words written in notebook she's kept buried beneath her mattress for too long.

And when her father smiles at her, eyes wide and bright, she knows she's made the right choice.

It tastes like loss, yes, but it also tastes like freedom.  


	2. collision course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura, known workaholic, is (forcefully) liberated from recording hell for the evening. An evening that leads to inadvisable amounts of alcohol, really inadvisable forms of flirtation, and an unfortunate encounter on a balcony. All in a day, right?

“Hey, Hollis!” Betty shouts, barging into the studio. “Finished yet?”

JP sighs, takes his headset off. “Miss Spielsdorf,” he interjects, and not even his prim, proper accent can hide the frustration in his voice, “please, you really must learn to knock. We’re in the middle of a session.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves a hand at him, makes her way to the door of the recording booth and lets herself in. “Save it. I’m going in.”

Laura sets her guitar down, lets her headphones dangle around her neck. “Betty!” she chastises. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

Betty just rolls her eyes. “Come _on_ , live a little. You’ve been locked up in here for, like, a million years. It’s time to get out, have some fun, breathe fresh air with the rest of us mortals for a bit.”

The problem with Betty Spielsdorf is that she doesn’t play by anybody’s rules but her own. Laura’s known this for years.

She remembers their days on _Summer Splash_ , where Betty had been a tiny terror, goofing off in the background of shoots when nobody was looking and ring-leading some of them into running away to the ice cream shop near the studio. 

Now is no different.

Despite the years, Betty still comes stampeding into her life when she pleases, dragging Laura off into half-baked adventures and ill-advised excursions. Between her modeling, she doesn't get much free time, but what she does is usually spent terrorizing Laura. Mostly, it involves days like these, where she shows up to drag her away from the studio, or her writing, with vague promises of food and entertainment.

Sighing, the removes the headset from her neck, hangs it. “Sorry, JP. I don’t think we’re going to get much more done today.”

In the two albums JP has produced for her, and all the hours of recording sessions that entails, he’s become accustomed to Betty’s behavior, much like Laura has. That’s why he doesn’t give anything more than a token protest, before eventually nodding.

“Very well,” he acquiesces, frowning. “It’s for the best.”

Laura smiles at him, emerging from the booth as Betty fist pumps in the background. “Thanks, JP. I’ll see you next week?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll look forward to it,” he agrees easily. “Although I think there’s still work that needs to be done on the third verse, perhaps some rearranging is in order. I’ll continue here, and I’ll let you know.”

Honestly, JP is the best.

“You’re the best, JP,” Laura captures him in a loose hug.

He tenses, lets out an awkward sound.

Betty, fed up of waiting, practically strong-arms Laura off him. “Alright, let’s get out of here, Hollis. Less hugging, more hustle. C’mon, mush.”

“Bye, JP!”

JP looks relieved as Betty leads her out the door. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, and returns Laura’s wave with a bemused one of his own. “Farewell, Laura.”

 

* * *

 

In an unsurprising turn of events, Betty's intended destination is less than what Laura's comfortable with.

Laura gets her hopes up that she's in for a quiet, relaxing evening when Betty hops into the passenger's side of her car, demanding they head back to Laura's apartment. But it turns out to be a stop-gap.

All Betty wants is to raid her closet, apparently, because she spends about fifteen minutes in the walk-in, picking through every outfit Laura owns—every button down, skirt, dress and jacket—like a wild-eyed scavenger. She skips past everything floral, animal-printed, or remotely 'teen sweetheart,' in favor of the darker sections of Laura's wardrobe, the things she only wears for events.

"Here, no arguments," Betty shoves a dress into her arms, and grabs another one for herself. "Wear this. Put on some makeup. Meet me in the kitchen in 5."

Laura sputters, watches her disappear out the door.

After a moment, she pops her head back in. "Oh, and wear some heels or something."

Betty breezes back out, and really, she almost wishes Betty would cackle, it'd lend definite credence to Laura's theory that she's some sort of malevolent witch intent on torturing her; or, at the very least, pushing her very deliberately out of her comfort zone and into the unknown, which is sort of the same thing.

By the time Laura's reluctantly slipped into the outfit—a tight, black cocktail dress she wore to the MTV music awards the year prior—and the heels, and spent entirely too long agonizing over makeup in the bathroom, Betty is ready to go. Her ex-costar is leaning against the kitchen island, in a golden dress and boots. She looks up, smiles her self-satisfied smile, when Laura enters. 

"Looking good, Laura," Betty holds up her phone. "Uber's almost here."

Laura grimaces. "Where are we going?"

She grins, edged with bad intention. "We're gonna have some fun, you workaholic!"

And that only makes Laura grimace harder, because her idea of fun is more along the lines of songwriting and binge-watching Netflix, where she knows Betty's lies in more traditionally hedonistic pursuits. The media has Elizabeth Spielsdorf tagged perfectly as a 'wild-hearted, party girl,' and just like the media's speculation, Laura's often wondered just  _how_ they're still friends, when they're different on almost a cellular level.

"Oh, don't look so scared," Betty flaps a hand at her, smirking. "When everybody heard I'd broken you out of recording hell for the night, they agreed to meet us in town. We're gonna get some drinks, do some dancing, and you'll get a chance to make some more moon eyes at Lawrence. She's gonna meet us there."

Laura's cheeks flush, and she sputters. "I'm not…that's not…I don't make  _moon eyes_."

"Oh, you so do. You're both so obvious it hurts," Betty gives her a once-over, laughing—and really, seriously, there should be a cackle there, maniacal as she is. "Now, come one. Ride's here. Let's go downstairs and blow poor—" she glances down at her phone screen, "—Connor's mind."

 

* * *

 

After a selfie-fest with their starry-eyed Uber driver, Laura and Betty make their way to the front door of _The Lustig_. 

It's not an unfamiliar bar to either of them, it's played host to a dozen similar parties over the years, though Laura's never been particularly big on them. Despite having a normal, public dance floor, which verges more on a club than anything else, it also has a very prominent section dedicated to VIPs—a portion of the bottom floor, and the entire second floor and balcony. Basically, anybody with a name, money or influence goes there. There's no real privacy in fame, especially if you want to go out for the evening, but a VIP section is about as good as it gets.

"I still don't know about this," Laura complains over the throbbing bass, and only the practice of two-decades of familiarity keeps her from squinting against the sudden bursts of flashing cameras. She's got her brightest, sweetest smile on, the well-practiced one she's worn in public for years. "I'm not really in a drinking mood."

"Woman up, Hollis. We're doing this, even if I have to pour tequila down your throat." Betty's arm is hooked through hers, and she tugs Laura closer to her side, leans so she can whisper in her ear. "We can do body shots, if that's what you're after."

"You know," Laura says, shaking her head as Betty reels her in, twines their fingers together, "this is why all the tabloids think we're together."

She grins, roguish. "Maybe that's why your dad keeps inviting me to dinner."

"You are the worst."

Betty flashes her an angelic look. "That's how you treat your girlfriend? Rude, Hollis. Very, very rude."

She discreetly pinches her friend's side, as they walk up to the bouncer. "You don't even like girls! And I treat my girlfriends very well, thank you."

"Wow, assuming my sexuality, that's pretty uncool of you, Hollis. Tumblr will throw a shit-fit when they find out," Betty gives her a fake, dramatic sniff, then hisses through her teeth as Laura pinches her harder. "I'll be sure to ask  _Danny_ if this is how you treat her."

"We are  _not dating, thank you_ ," Laura hisses, as they make it to the VIP door. "And you will do no such thing."

The bouncer gives them a once over, eyes lingering on their faces for a split second—she doesn't recognize him, but the list of people who don't recognize her are few and far between nowadays—before he wordlessly lets them in.

"You just need a push, Laura. She's super, mega gay for you, trust me. Her crush is so obvious, they can see it from outer space," Betty gives the flashing cameras a radiant smile and a wave. "If you won't tell her, I will. Let me wing-woman, seriously, it won't even take that much. Danny's into you. If I tell her you're scared of the monster under your bed, she'd probably volunteer to share it with you."

"I will murder you," Laura warns, tight. "I will murder you dead."

"Please, like you could. You'd need a step ladder just to strangle me," Betty lets her hand go, as they step through the threshold and into the bar. "Now, if you're not going to let me wing-woman, I'm going to need  _at least_ three shots of tequila and a strawberry daiquiri in the next twenty minutes if I'm going to make it through your awkward mating ritual without barfing. Let's go. First round's on you."

Laura sputters, chokes. "But—"

"Come on,  _Rory_ ," Betty teases, dragging her through the throngs of people, towards the crowded bar. "Your Stephanie awaits."

 

* * *

  

"Wow, somebody's starting the party early."

Laura tears her concerned eyes away from Betty, who's knocking back her fourth (fifth? sixth?) shot, towards the familiar voice.

"You know Betty," she shrugs helplessly, standing to hug her friend. "The party starts whenever the heck she wants it to."

Danny has to bend almost in half to hug her, but she's warm and comfortable and, wow, her shoulders are strong. "Looks like we're a half-hour late, at her pace."

"Hey, Taylor Swift," Will greets, reaching out to snag Laura's vodka-lemonade from the table. "Long time, no see."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Taylor Swift is a fantastic artist, and I respect her music and her abilities tremendously," Laura scowls at him, looking distinctly unimpressed. "And also, I was drinking that."

Will rolls his eyes, drops heavily into the booth across from her. "Save the teardrops for your guitar. I need this more than you do."

"Long day at the office?"

He makes a face, forgoes the straw to drink directly from the glass. "My job is a nightmare and I need at least four more of these to forget the horrors of divorce hearings. I had to negotiate custody of a _parrot_. Why did I let my mother talk me into becoming a lawyer?"

"Because you hated acting, and your frat days were the best of your life?" Danny retorts, shrugging. "You could always get back on the horse. I know a guy who's looking for a male actor for a project, if you're interested."

Will gives her a look. "Are you trying to sign me up for porn, Lawrence?"

"Did somebody say porn?" Betty drops into the conversation, rakes an eye up and down Will, then gives an approving thumbs up. "I'd watch that."

"I am _not_ trying to sign you up for porn, fratboy," Danny hisses, and someone nearby gives them all a curious look. "In your dreams."

He smirks, eyebrow raising. "Well, duh."

"Gross," Laura's nose wrinkles, and she flags down a bartender. "I need another drink before I'll willing to talk about anything going on in that area, dream Will or otherwise."

Will rolls his eyes at her. "Sorry, Tegan and Sara. I know that's not your area of expertise."

"That's offensive," Laura tells him, after ordering a round of drinks for all of them (and reluctantly nodding to Betty's call of "shots, keep 'em coming"). "And very much true. So please, keep your sex life away from the table, for my sake."

"Yes, Mother," Will snarks.

Laura sighs, because, Danny aside, she's certain that _Summer Splash_ only came about in order to throw the most frustrating human beings into her life. After almost a decade, they're somehow _more_ annoying than they used to be—and yes, Will has always been the most annoying human in existence, but he's become even more obnoxious with age. She loves them, but they're really the worst.

A tray of shots makes its way to the table, and Betty cheers, sliding them around.

"Cheers!" Betty shouts over the music, earning a few eyes. "To finally rescuing Laura from recording hell!"

"I'll drink to that," Danny smiles, raising her glass.

Laura colors. "It's not hell! JP is great fun to work with! I _enjoy_ my job, thank you."

"Good, well that makes one of us," Will takes up two shot glasses, raises them both with a long-suffering look in his eye. "Here's to this stupid city, and our stupid jobs, and that stupid kids show that stuck me with all of you! Now, shut up and drink!"

Betty woops, clinks hers with his. "Cheers!"

Danny laughs. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Laura sighs, shaking her head.

 

* * *

  

After a few more drinks, an hour or two of chatting (thankfully, Will's sex life is still off the table, although he's dropped references to a few girls), Laura's feeling loose.

Sometime during the night, they've lost track of Betty completely. Which, not entirely surprising. If you have a night out and Betty doesn't pull the patented Spielsdorf Disappearing Act™, then it's not a very good night (Betty's words, not hers). 

Laura expects to see her tomorrow on the news, with a record of whatever indecency or public intoxication laws she's broken this week. Honestly, TMZ should just have an entire section dedicated to 'This Week, with Betty Spielsdorf.'

Still, she's not overly concerned. She's probably a little too drunk to care very much about Betty, or Will (who has wandered off, looking for a 'hot date'). All she cares about is her present company.

"So, then I had to pull the sword from his chest," Danny recounts, using her straw like a prop. "And defeat all these demons. I got to do the stunts myself, too. It was _awesome_."

Her hot-face pressed into her palm, Laura takes a sip of a half-empty drink. "Who knew little Danny would grow up to kiss guys and kill demons on MTV."

"I grew up alright," Danny cracks a grin. "Remember when I used to be shorter than you?"

Laura laughs. "In a distant, prized memory. I still think about it sometimes. I used to ask _you_ how the weather was down there."

"How _is_ the weather down there, Laura?" she retorts, reaching across the table to nudge Laura's hand with her pointer finger, and wow, she has a pretty smile.

"Beautiful," she blurts, and immediately flushes at Danny's wide eyes. "The—the weather is, I mean. Very nice. Warm. Sunny with a breeze, you know. Haha, yes. Good. I'm just—gonna go. Get some fresh air.  _Okaythanksbye."_

Danny tries to call after her, but Laura wastes no time breaching the throngs of people on the dance floor. Her heart is running a mile a minute, and she's blushing so hard she's sure her _feet_ are red. 

God, her and her dumb, uncontrollable mouth.

"Mmrrgh," Laura mashes her face into her hands for a moment, trying to cover up the embarrassment. It doesn't work, but it does make her feel better, even if some people dancing skirt around her, giving her a weird look. "Beautiful? Really? Nice job, Laura."

She makes her way up to the second floor, away from the pulsating lights and drunken dancing. It's quieter up there, more bar-feel and less club-feel. There's less people, too, and she doesn't have to squeeze against walls to avoid brushing up against anybody.

"I'm an idiot, seriously. Why do I do these things?" she mutters to herself. "Oh god, Betty's going to laugh at me _forever_."

Laura blindly navigates her way onto the balcony, half-stumbling from both alcohol and weak-kneed mortification. The evening air is cool, brisk, and it snaps her into full-bodied awareness of just how painfully awkward she is—and also how hot she is, because wow, apparently  _The Lustig_ has never heard of air conditioning.

There's not that many people lingering on the balcony, under the string lighting. Probably a dozen, clustered in groups around tables or leaning against the railing, looking out into the city lights of downtown LA.

There's no familiar faces (really, where _has_ Betty gone? Then again, probably safer not to know—plausible deniability). That's good, great even. She needs at least twenty feet between her, Danny, and that awful attempt at flirting she'd blurted out (a  _blurtation_ , she dubs it; a Laura Hollis specialty). 

It's relatively quiet, or as quiet as it can be when you're at a bar-slash-nightclub, and it's refreshing to be under the evening air.

Laura relaxes, takes another steadying breath.

She's more than a little drunk, as her barely-there balance in her heels is more than an attestation to, and she's not sure her red cheeks will ever go away, but at least she's away from the scene of her own ridiculousness. Although being alone in a club is an excessively bad idea—her father's disapproving voice comes to mind,  _"watch out for yourself, sweetheart! remember, go for the throat!"—_ she's not so sure she wants to face Danny anytime soon, Betty's probably a lost cause, and Will's got the emotional range (and sympathy) of a toddler mid-tantrum. So, alone it is.

Laura makes her way over to the railing, leaning on her elbows, and sweeps her gaze across the horizon.

The lights downtown make the sky above dark, starless, but there's something beautiful about it all; a million little lives, going about their business, just as rich and wildly different as any other. There's a lot of sights she's seen over the years, in world tours and whirlwind visits, but the lights of downtown LA are still somehow magical. 

Her hand itches for a pen, to try to put what she's feeling down in words. Eyes slipping closed, the evening air teasing at her loose hair, Laura turns her attention to the sounds only she can hear; fragments, distant things, buried in the back of her head. Unbidden, her fingertips tap out a tentative beat on the railing, humming softly.

She's not sure how long she lingers there for before an outbreak of noise startles her eyes open.

"No way! Dude, that's not how it goes!"

"It is!"

Laura blinks, turns her head.

At a nearby table, a small cluster of people are gathered, an increasingly loud argument waging between two of them.

"It's goes like this, bah-da-da- _da_ -dum," a guy is banging his palms against the table in a rhythm, almost knocking over a stack of empty glasses; his cheeks are flushed red, and he's squinting. "Not bah-da-da-dum."

With their back to her, Laura can't get an insight into the other one beyond their short, ginger hair. "I'm the drummer! I am the official beat keeper! I keep the beat!"

"You're keeping the beat  _wrong_!"

The ginger gasps, turns their gaze to a girl with long, similarly red hair at their side. "Perr, am I keeping the beat wrong?"

"Sweetie," she answers mildly back, placing a placating hand on their forearm, stopping them from taking another sip of their drink. "I think it's been a very long day, and an even longer night. I'm sure you'll remember the beat tomorrow morning, after some rest."

They reel backwards, shocked. "Are you trying to tell me I'm  _wrong_ , Perr? You, my best friend?"

"That's it, bro! She agrees with me! Two-to-one!"

"Et tu, Perry."

The woman frantically waves her hands. "No, no, LaFontaine. I'm just saying that maybe this isn't the best time for this argument."

"This is the  _best_ time to prove Kirsch wrong," they reply, turning in their seat. "When he'll be too hungover to remember the shame tomorrow."

Laura shrinks back as their gaze passes over her, lingering for the briefest moment, but it swiftly passes on, further down the railing. 

"Hey, Karnstein! Drop the groupie and get over here! This is urgent  _Silas_ business!"

There's some grumbling and groaning, and she follows the sounds, turning too. 

Tucked together in the corner adjacent to her, a woman with dark hair reluctantly pulls herself away from a blonde-haired girl. There's a little awkward fumbling, a hand pulling away from under a dress, and the sound of a zipper being done up, and— _oh_ , Laura's cheeks go red and her eyes go wide, watching the brunette smirk, pat the girl on the hip, and depart.

They were definitely—yup, no mistaking it, wow.

Who does that at a  _club_ , on a  _balcony_?

The woman passes Laura by, she tosses her an assessing, almost amused, look. "Evening, cutie."

Laura's words die in her throat, mouth opening and closing. "I—"

"Close your mouth, sweetheart. Gawking isn't a good look for you."

"Wha—?" Laura takes a stuttering breath, outrage and embarrassment rising in equal measure. "I'm not…that's… _inappropriate_!"

She chuckles, dark and low, and winks at her. "Only if you get caught. Maybe you should give it a try sometime," her eyes rake up and down Laura, "take the edge off."

Laura squares her shoulders, squints angrily. "I'm not going to…to do  _that_ at a  _bar_. And you shouldn't, either!"

"Shouldn't I?" she quirks an eyebrow, mouth flat. "Why? Scared to scar the children? Please."

"It's disgusting," she condemns. "And completely inappropriate. What if someone had—had seen you?"

"Seems to me, the only person who cares is you," the says pointedly, eyes flickering over to the blonde she'd left, who slips back into the club with bowlegs.

Laura huffs, shakes her head. "Regardless, you shouldn't—"

The woman takes a few daring steps closer, and Laura backs up on unsteady feet. She retreats until the railing presses into her lower back, and grips it harshly, like a lifeline. But the woman doesn't stop her advances, she moves even closer, leaning forward and resting her hands on either side of Laura's, until their faces are so close she can feel warm breath on her face. 

"Telling me what to do, cupcake? That's brazen."

Up close, Laura can see how dark the stranger's eyes are, shining with something she can't place. 

"You could at least buy me a drink first."

"Get—" Laura's voice comes out squeaky, high pitched; wow this woman is very attractive, and very close, and Laura is very,  _very_ gay. "Get away from me."

(All the times her father had warned her about alcohol, bars,  _boy_ _s_ , and inappropriate touches—who knew it'd be women she had to worry about?)

A hand comes up, tucks a stray strand of Laura's hair behind her ear. "Is that what you want?"

Her mouth opens, closes. "Y-Yes!"

" _Carmilla_ ," the redhead calls again, pointing. "Seriously, this is a matter of life of death! Get over here! Save the flirting for  _after._ "

The brunette, Carmilla, pulls away from her with a smirk. "Saved by the bell, cutie."

"Laura," she bites, heart thundering in her chest. "My name is Laura. Not cutie, or cupcake, or anything else."

A flash of something passes through Carmilla's eyes. "I suppose it is."

"And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't touch me," she says, suddenly realizing just how cold the night air is, wishing she had a jacket to pull around her shoulders. Her eyes dart pointedly to Carmilla's hands. "We both know where those hands have been."

Carmilla tilts her head. "Until next time,  _cupcake_."

Laura bites her tongue, watches her go. "Not likely," she huffs.

Betty chooses that moment to reappear, absolutely plastered and grinning like she's just seen something fantastic.

"Get over here, Hollis!" she calls, waving an arm and spilling half her drink on the floor. "I just heard an amazinglittle story from your  _girlfriend_."

Laura chokes, splutters, at the reminder. "Betty!"

She reaches out, snags Laura's hand to drag her back inside. "Come on, nerd, that's enough of the  _beautiful_ weather. We're getting you some more shots, and then you're spilling the beans. I need a play-by-play, a dramatic retelling of the story. I need all the sordid little details of just what was going on in that adorable, lovedrunk little mind of yours."

"Betty, no."

She grins. "Betty,  _yes_."

"Why are we friends?" she wonders, letting Betty pull her back into the chaos.

"Because you're a lonely workaholic who'd never get out if I didn't drag your ass out," Betty replies. "Beggars can't be choosers, dork."

Laura chances a glance back.

The woman's sitting at the table with her friends, feet kicked up, smirking back at her over the rim of a glass.

"Darn it, Betty."

She walks faster.

Still, she'll take Betty's teasing over  _that_ any day.


	3. repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after: two parties have to face the music.

Laura wakes up on Saturday morning to pandemonium.

_"Damn! She's hot, Hollis! Didn't know you had it in you!"_

Shaking off the sleep, she squints, pulls herself out of bed. "Betty, what are you talking about?"

 _"Don't play coy with me,"_ Betty retorts, entirely too upbeat for someone who ingested her body weight in tequila, and who should probably have an Australia-sized hangover.  _"Color me impressed, Laura. I always said you needed to let loose, get some—of course, I figured it'd be with Danny when one of you_ finally  _woman-ed the hell up. But still, I approve. You booked a ten."_

"I," Laura says, slow, "have no idea what you're talking about."

 _"Well, that's funny, because there are some very_ interesting  _pictures I'm looking at right now."_

"Pictures?" A lead weight sinks in Laura's stomach. "Of what, exactly?"

 _"Your mysterious lady lover from last night, Miss Dark-Sultry-and-Leather."_ God, Laura can hear the eyebrow wiggle.  _"You're trending, by the way."_

"Lady…lover?" Laura pauses, then scrambles frantically for her laptop, impatiently powering it on. "This is  _not_ happening."

 _"You stole my guest slot on TMZ,"_ Betty chortles.  _"I'm almost offended."_

It takes about a half-dozen tries for her to unlock her laptop, her hands refuse to work properly on the keys. But, when she does, and she loads up Twitter, she sees it.

A very grainy, dark,  _distinctive_ setting.

Holy crabsticks.

"Betty? I'll call you back.

_"What, no—"_

Laura hangs up, drops her phone, and frantically pages through her social media. 

> **TMZ**  @TMZ  
>  Laura Hollis caught out at nightclub with Carmilla Karnstein  
>  https://t.co/v1qPgDJSDM
> 
> **HollisFanclub**  @hollisno1fan  
>  Be still my little gay heart! Get it, @Laura2theletter!
> 
> **LauraRawks** @hollis4lyf  
>  @Laura2theletter @HeyCarmilla how did this happen!? when did this happen!?!?
> 
> **Betty Spielsdorf** @bspielsdorf  
>  @Laura2theletter not sure if proud of heartbroken. what about us???
> 
> **Betty Spielsdorf** @bspielsdorf  
>  she hung up on me :/
> 
> **Laura Hollis** @Laura2theletter  
>  @bspielsdorf WE ARE NOT TOGETHER. AND YOU DESERVED IT.
> 
> **TMZ** @TMZ  
>  Trouble in paradise, @Laura2theletter and @bspielsdorf?

Her Tumblr pages are similar states of chaos—her official Tumblr's ask box has exploded with messages and notifications, and her secret page's dashboard (mostly for stalking tags about herself and general nerdiness) is just dozens and dozens of posts with screeching in the tags, manips of the images, and thesis-length discourse about what this means (a lot, apparently) and  _who_ Carmilla Karnstein is (and  _that's_ intriguing).

> **2gay2function** reblogged  **karnsteins**
> 
> So, in light of the new (gay!!!) developments in the Hollis fandom,  
>  I'm seeing a lot of hate/questions being tossed around. Just who  
>  _is_ Carmilla Karnstein is the most common question, and as a fan  
>  of both Carmilla and Laura for a while now, I'm here to shed some  
>  light!
> 
> Carmilla Karnstein is: 27, openly lesbian, lead-singer of  _Silas_ , a  
>  punk rock (though they sometimes dip into pop-punk, or alt)   
>  band who are coming up recently.
> 
> Some of you have been dragging up the scandals surrounding  
>  her and her romantic history (namely, the drama with her  
>  ex-girlfriend Ell, and all the crap since) and that she's a 'womanizer'.  
>  Carmilla's never denied this (when asked to comment on her  
>  relationships once, she literally said "what relationships" and did that  
>  flirty little smirk, be still _my heart_ ). But people change! The past   
>  doesn't define us! This could be the power couple we dreamed of!
> 
> I'm as surprised as the rest of you that Laura Hollis was caught with   
>  her! But remember, there's only so much the media can show us!  
>  And the open, celebrity lesbian community is small! Stranger things  
>  have happened!
> 
> Personally, all I want out of this (aside from  _more details Hollis)_ is   
>  to hear them sing together! I need a Hollstein duet in my life right  
>  now.

It goes on and on, and has almost twenty thousand notes already, and a fair share of additional comments (that she  _absolutely_ does not spend ages reading—and, wow, people are  _very_ dedicated already to the S.S. Hollstein, if the all-caps pleading for them to sing together or for more 'kisses' (which she's still trying to wrap her head around). 

Eventually, Laura closes the tab, sitting slowly back in bed.

"What," she asks to the ceiling, blinking, "is happening?"

Before she can thing much about it, her phone buzzes again—which, yes, it's been doing that nonstop for a while now, but she doesn't feel like talking to Betty again just yet, or explaining herself to Danny yet, or  _ever_ explaining anything to Will.

The name that flashes up, however, stops her from ignoring the call. 

_Nazneen _Ramanujan.__

Her PR Manager.

Crap. 

* * *

 

A piece of paper slaps down on the desk in front of her, hard.

Carmilla smothers a yawn, taps the ‘like’ button on a photo from the Silas Instagram—it’s of her, from the show the night before: eyes bright and hair wild, singing in Kirsch’s face, his crazy grin reflecting hers.

“Well?”

She hums, low, in the back of her throat.

Mattie strikes out like a cobra, snatches her phone from her hands. “ _Kitty_.”

Carmilla sighs, reclines further in her chair. “Yes, you have my attention.”

Pointedly, Mattie sits on the edge of her desk, shoving the piece of paper forward.

> _LAURA HOLLIS CAUGHT OUT AT NIGHTCLUB WITH SILAS' LEAD SINGER CARMILLA KARNSTEIN…_

There's an entire article printed, but that isn't what catches her eye. Carmilla takes in the series of half-blurry images, eyebrows raising.

First: the girl from the bar standing alone, eyes closed, city lights on her face.

Second: in heated conversation with Carmilla.

In the final one: the two of them are pressed close, from when Carmilla had backed her up, hands on either side of hers, their faces so close that, from the angle, it almost looks like they're kissing.

"Did you seriously print that out?"

Mattie glares at her. "Congratulations, you little monster. You've officially outdone yourself."

"You could have just sent me the link, you know. 'Save the trees',” Carmilla grumbles, rolls her eyes. “Or would that deprive you of your dramatics?”

"I thought perhaps physical proof might just get the message through that thick skull of yours."

Carmilla picks at her nails. "Nope."

A glare. "Did you know?"

She quirks a brow.

"Who she was," Mattie elaborates. "Before you decided to make my job a million times harder, as always."

She rolls her eyes. "Does it matter?"

"Only if you want to leave my office intact.”

Carmilla scuffs her boot against the leg of the chair, crosses her arms. "Not at first," she admits, reluctant, because what she does isn't really any of Mattie's business (even though it is, quite literally). "I was drunk…"

"And she's a pretty girl, yes. I know of your  _proclivities_ ," Mattie sighs, pins her with _the look_. "But honestly, you could have gone for someone a little more small-time, darling. It's a lot easier to dismiss the story when they're nameless, D-list nobodies. You know this."

"Isn't it your job to make it go away?"

Mattie shakes her head. "Easier said than done, I'm afraid. This girl makes you look like a nobody, and her reputation is a  _lot_ better than yours. There's nothing to spin about her either, she's squeaky clean—volunteers with at-risk LGBT+ kids, donates to charity, advocates gay rights, the whole thing. She's well on her way to becoming America's next gay icon."

Her eyes slide away, a glower directed at her feet. "I know who she is. But why does it matter?”

“Because you, my dear,” Mattie bites out, “decided to pick one of the most famous girls in all of Hollywood to try on for the night. _And_ you got caught. Truly spectacular work."

Carmilla huffs, doesn't even attempt to refute the claim; Mattie doesn't care, because 'whether you did it or not is irrelevant, it's whether people _think_ you did'. "I'm surprised you're not happy. I got a 'good girl' for once."

"You know I'm not interested in your little trysts. What I'm interested in is your career, and making sure you don't burn it down in flames before you pay me back for all the hours I have to put in, covering up your messes."

"I don't see the problem," Carmilla shrugs. "She's famous. So, what?"

"Laura Hollis has never even been publicly on a date with anyone, darling, let alone anything like _that_ ," she taps the photos, expression long-suffering. "Congratulations, sis. You landed the Holy Gay Grail of Hollywood. Hollis' romantic life is the subject of speculation from here to Austria, and now you're caught up in a media storm."

"I thought you'd be excited, this is the 'exposure' I need, right?"

Mattie pins her with a dry look. "I see someone's actually listening to the lectures I give her, even if she doesn't intend to follow through with what I tell her," she sighs, smooths a crease out of her expensive dress. "The exposure? Good. But what they're saying about you? Less than favorable."

"That's nothing new."

"As I'm too painfully aware," Mattie retorts. "But, unfortunately, half the _world_ is now very invested in who you are _and_ your reputation. There's been a surge of interest in Silas, and thousands of new downloads, which is very good. On the other hand, it seems half of Hollywood is chomping at the bit to learn more about you. They're digging up every piece of dirt on you they can find. And there's a lot to find."

Carmilla tilts her head. "I'm not hearing a problem."

"You've got a whole host of problems, darling," Mattie says, sharp. "But the biggest one is her."

"Laura?"

"There's been no public response to the speculation, _yet._ " Mattie reaches her desk drawer, pulls out another piece of paper and lays it on the desk in front of Carmilla. "But her PR team is less than impressed, and, for the record, nether is she. She's saying the advances were very much unwelcome, and she's denying any connection with you at all."

Carmilla can't help the smirk. "I'm not so sure about that."

Mattie's eyebrow raises. "Regardless, this is bad. You picked one of the few girls to mess around with that _can_ harm your career. Your public image is already at an all-time low, if she releases a statement saying that you harassed her, well, it won't be good. Not for you, and especially not for Silas."

Shit.

 _Double_ shit.

Carmilla can already feel the headache, a side-effect of the half-bottle of bourbon she'd drank last night (and, also, a very common outcome of meetings with Mattie). "I need a drink."

"What you _need_  to do, is stop this from airing."

"Isn't that your job?"

"I'm afraid this requires a more personalized touch," Mattie says, folding her hands, smirking. "I had some time, while I was waiting _two hours_ for you to show up, and I had some words with her people. Miss Hollis is willing to work with us on what she'll say, but she wants to meet with you."

Carmilla's mouth flattens. "Why?"

"Well, an apology wouldn't be remiss," Mattie replies, flippant. "She spent fifteen minutes shouting me down about the problematic nature of poorly rooted, non-journalistic research, and another twenty ranting about the establishment of boundaries and propriety at a nightclub—which, by the way, I actually _agree with_. Then, she demanded to meet with you."

"Sounds fun."

Mattie glares at her. "Oh, it was quite something. I'm sure you'll get the unabridged version in its entirety, when you meet up with her this afternoon for lunch."

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"Not if you want to remain my client," she says, firm. "This is not the Navy. I refuse to go down with a sinking ship. So, if you're unwilling to do what needs to be done, then we'll part ways here and that'll be that. She'll sink your career like a stone, sweet thing."

Carmilla's never reacted well to threats. Her hand fists tightly, and she shoves it in the pocket of her jacket, turning her head away from Mattie, glaring at the picture framed on the wall: Mattie, arm tucked into Carmilla's elbow, both smiling and holding champagne flutes. It's from the day she signed the deal—one of the happiest in her life.

"You wouldn't."

"You're my sister, and I love you," Mattie folds her hands. "But you're an idiot. And this? This is my livelihood, my reputation, as much as yours."

A silent stare down takes place, a weighty moment.

She takes in a deep, steadying breath. "Fine."

"Excellent," Mattie smiles, slow but wide, pleased. "You're meeting her at 1."

Carmilla scowls. "Great."

"Oh, try to sound a little more excited," her sister waves her off. "It's a lunch date with a _pretty girl_. It's right up your alley."

"How truly exciting," she deadpans. "I'm over the moon."

Mattie smirks. "Stick to singing, darling. Acting was never in your wheelhouse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while. I'll be honest and say that between writer's block and being hit with all these uni assignments (should be all done by next week!!! then no classes until late next February), I haven't been writing much at all. That being said, this chapter was actually 90% done, and I decided to just fix it up a little and post it as-is. So, enjoy? Hopefully I'll be more active soon, now that classes are clearing up (although I have 9000 words of investigations/reports/data analysis to do over the next week, pray for me).


End file.
